


You do that voodoo that you do so well

by Blake



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: M/M, PWP, between IV and V, gaywakening, space boyfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-14 22:26:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21023225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: When Luke figures out he’s in love with Han Solo, he hides in his quarters for days on end.





	You do that voodoo that you do so well

**Author's Note:**

> So I want to write so, so much Skysolo? Here's my first completed work. It was written for a 30 day challenge based on Cole Porter songs. Many more to come, I hope!

When Luke figures out he’s in love with Han Solo, he hides in his quarters for days on end. He sweats and cries into his dirty bedsheets, which are slightly softer than the standard provisioning on this particular rebel base. He’s treated like some kind of prince, free to disappear in his room and cry about how he’s fallen in unrequited love.

Being free to disappear is kind of lonely, because no one even comes to check on him. One shot to the death star and suddenly nobody feels entitled to his time. Nobody except Leia, Chewie, Han, and the voices in his head.

Leia comes eventually, but the sight of her pretty face makes him feel ten times worse, a reminder of how idiotically long it’s taken him to realize what’s happened and how utterly hopeless it all is. He’s in love with Han, who’s got his eyes on Leia. And all that time Luke spent assuming he was in love with the first pretty girl he ever met in his life, he was falling deeper in love with Han, too unconscious to stop himself, too distracted by the furious cloud of unnamed _jealousy_he felt every time Han talked about her.

It’s not all bad, though. Now that Luke knows, he lets himself imagine the things he hasn’t quite imagined before. Instead of vague, boundless visions of flesh and pressure, he thinks of the way Han’s hand had wrapped around his, showing him how to wrench open the air filter on the Falcon, and he comes quick and hard and grins for several minutes until it all dissolves into self-pitying tears, because he’ll never _actually_get to feel Han’s touch on him the way he wants it.

He passes the time thinking thoughts of Han the way other people read books. He thinks of Han tying him up and stripping him naked and kissing him. He thinks of the perfect little furrow between Han’s eyebrows when he thinks he’s been insulted, and how cute it is that he’s so easy to insult and, therefore, to tease. He thinks of Han’s calm, patient, steady voice guiding him through simple daily tasks, back a few weeks after the death star, when everything caught up with Luke all at once and imploded and Luke could barely get out of bed in the morning because it meant living in a world where everyone he’d ever loved or trusted was dead and the weight of the entire galaxy rested on his shoulders. Han had taken away the weight of the galaxy, swept him up in his rust-bucket ship, and treated Luke like a regular adult with regular feelings and regular responsibilities. And he’d smiled so sweetly and flirted so charmingly the way he flirts meaninglessly with all living things and walked around the ship half-naked because he was just that incomprehensibly comfortable in his perfect body, and Luke had thought he wanted to be like him.

Luke had fallen in love with him.

On the fifth morning, he wakes up smiling into his own pillow, just thinking the thought, _I’m in love_. The feeling takes up his whole body and more, a greater destiny than he ever imagined for himself back on Tatooine, though it’s objectively a less great destiny than fighting the empire and restoring balance to the universe or whatever it is the voices in his head tell him he’s supposed to be doing. He used to never think he’d fall in love, because he thought he would never meet a pretty girl. He was such a fool. 

Ten minutes later, he’s panting into his same pillow, sweat cooling on his face, fingers still twisted inside him in this place he’s imagined where Han might fit perfectly. His sheets are now messier than ever. He’s probably reached a new low. He lets a tear drop onto the pillow, but he still smiles at the memory of how bright his heart had felt when Han briefly visited last week, how his mouth dried up every time Han’s bright eyes met his, how his stomach had dropped every time he got close.

He hears the sound of his door being unlocked and pulls into a tight ball under his sheet, a defensive and innocent position. Without permission, his door opens.

Han walks in.

Luke’s stomach drops because Han is coming closer, but he’s been watching this scene in his head so much over the past several days that it still feels like he’s somehow observing from overhead, detached.

“What happened to you?” Han asks, not entirely unkind. He looks skeptically around the room, clearly impressed by how bad the situation is. Whatever Leia told him to convince him to visit, he wasn’t expecting this.

“Nothing,” Luke answers plainly, wanting to hide his face but unable to look away when Han looks _like that_.

Han awkwardly walks the perimeter of the small room on wobbly legs, inspecting random artifacts of Luke’s deterioration. “Hey,” he says, voice softer now that he’s talking to a days-old, mush-encrusted spoon that he picked up off a shelf. “You were doing so much better.”

Luke thinks that’s a stupid thing to say. He was doing much better, and now he is doing worse again. Those are facts. If he was just depressed again, he wouldn’t respond. But he’s not depressed; he’s in love. “That was when you were around.”

That gets Han’s full attention back, though Luke won’t let himself believe that that was his goal. Han’s hair is a bit shorter than it was last time, like he cut it recently. Luke’s heart hurts when their eyes meet. He loves him so much.

After chewing on his surprise for a visible minute, Han softens his posture and shrugs, ambling closer to the bed. “Nobody here to keep you in line, huh?”

Luke watches him coming closer, feels it in his bones. “No.” Both of Han’s trigger fingers twitch and Luke’s mind flashes with the memory of imagining those hands around his wrists, pinning him down and open.

It’s not until Han abruptly sits down on the bed that Luke realizes he has moved, letting one bare knee slip out the side of his blanket, his body opening up invitingly on instinct. Han’s facing his head, though, probably unaffected by the sight. He rests a careful hand on top of the blanket near Luke’s shoulder and looks down at that hand. Luke wants to know what he’s thinking, wants to know if he feels _anything_about him: pity, concern, affection, irritation. _Maybe he’s in love with me_, Luke thinks, pitifully hopeful, just like he’s thought it a thousand times only to scold himself for his idiocy each and every time.

“You gonna tell me what’s going on?” Luke gazes up at Han’s pinched face, wanting to lose himself in the care in his voice, the closest thing to intimacy he’ll probably ever get.

“No.”

The corner of Han’s mouth cinches, a stupidly charming thing that Luke wants to lick. “Alright then.” He slowly, stiffly spins in his seat and kick his feet up alongside Luke’s. “Don’t mind if I sleep here, then?” he says, not really a question. He’s always so damned good at sensing what will bother someone most and just making it happen. Luke backs himself to the wall in horror as Han lies down flat on his back on the small cot, forcing him to face the thing he’s not ready to face. “I flew twelve hours straight just to get here,” he says as he closes his eyes. Somehow, it doesn’t sound like guilt-tripping; it sounds like reassurance. _I care enough to fly twelve hours straight to make sure you’re okay_.

So Luke is stuck, naked back plastered against the cold, tacky wall, with a fully-clothed, possibly already sleeping Han Solo in his bed. He has no idea what he’s supposed to do. This is supposedly some thinly veiled hostage situation, where Han occupies his space until Luke agrees to tell him what’s wrong. But the thing that’s wrong is how badly Luke _wants_Han to occupy his space. So Luke just… lies there. He lies there until his shoulder goes numb, studying every line of Han’s face, breathing in tandem with the steep rise and fall of Han’s chest, thinking about how simultaneously selfless and selfish love is. He should probably feel bad about how much he’s enjoying watching Han sleep when Han is oblivious to how Luke wants to wake up with this view every morning, but his guilt is easily dwarfed by longing and there’s nobody to keep him in line.

After just a few minutes, Han turns over onto his side, facing Luke, and shuffles ever so slightly closer, as though unconsciously seeking warmth. Luke can’t even panic as he realizes he’s fully and incriminatingly hard again just from Han’s proximity, because he’s too busy inhaling the hints of Han’s scent hair-sweat-breath that he can get. He smells like he flew twelve hours straight to get here. It’s terribly good, sends shards of arousal straight down.

Luke’s conscience kicks in when he actually spends a whole second _considering_touching himself while Han is unconscious in his bed. “Han,” he shouts to wake him, adjusting the blanket to make sure that he and the stains on his sheets are still covered.

Han’s eyes blink open, clear and alert. Luke doesn’t know him well enough to say for sure if Han’s just a light sleeper or if he was never actually asleep and was just lying there, listening to Luke watching him.

Han hums into Luke’s pillow, inching even closer. The way his eyes drop to Luke’s mouth makes his breath stop, but his slurred but certain words rip the breath right out from his chest: “God, you smell so fucking good.”

Luke’s body bursts into static electricity under the attention and shock. He can’t find the air to say a single thing, to form a single movement. He just lies there, letting Han look at him, letting Han _smell_him. Han’s trigger finger twitches where it’s laid flat on top of the blanket between them, and that’s what finally loosens Luke’s tongue. “I’m all yours,” he whispers simply, for Han to take what he will from it. 

“What’re you doing to me, kid?” It should sound like an accusation, but it’s too soft. Luke wonders, in awe, if it’s possible to wish for something so hard that you make people do things they don’t want to do. But when Han lays a hand on Luke’s shoulder, it’s careful, seeking, and warm. It feels like he _wants_to touch him. And Luke’s skin comes alive under the touch. He breathes and curls into it until Han’s palm is shaped firmly around the curve of his shoulder.

“Just wanting to kiss you.”

Han has never looked more serious or focused than he does right now, scanning Luke’s face. “_You _want to kiss _me_,” he repeats, soft and disbelieving.

Luke can’t believe his senses, because his senses are telling him that Han wants to kiss him, too. “Yes,” he answers, since simple honesty seems to be getting him closer to what he wants than he’s ever been before.

Han squeezes his shoulder as though testing its reality. The pinch of it makes Luke moan in pleasure. He wants to open up under all the pressure Han has to give.

When Han smiles, his mouth opens like he’s gasping, like he’s in awe. “Must be that Force voodoo then,” he sighs, not seeming at all concerned with his agency or lack thereof, and then he’s pressing closer and closer. Luke’s body lights up under his encroaching shadow, and he melts onto his back, opening up and drawing Han in, breath a short and shallow whine where it’s trapped in his throat by the pressure of his beating heart.

There’s something ecstatically beautiful about the way Han’s eyes fall quietly shut in the instant before their lips meet. It’s the only concrete image resounding in Luke’s head as he kisses Han, losing himself completely to swells of fire and heat, swallowed moans, breaking laughter, and the perfect touch of Han’s body through the blanket. 

Luke feels like crying or giddily laughing for hours or praying, but most of all he just wants more and more, wants everything he can get in this moment, and fuck the rest of eternity. Drunk on the wet slide of Han’s mouth on his, he grabs Han’s hand and drags it under the blanket, slides it down his chest and to his waist, where Han grips firm and tight, grunting needily around Luke’s tongue.

Han breaks away to grind his forehead against Luke’s temple and his hot breaths burst out chaotically against Luke’s wet lips, tantalizingly close but not close enough. Luke breathes into the touch on his waist and digs both his hands into the oily mess of Han’s hair, holding on for dear life. “Even better than I imagined,” Han exhales right before Luke gets his mouth back. The words hit him late, punching a moan out into their kiss as he realizes that Han has _imagined _this, just like he has.

Luke rolls Han onto his back and straddles him just so he can kick the blanket out from between them. The hand on his waist never moves, but as soon as the blanket is gone, Han’s other hand blindly finds his cock and squeezes, the single best thing Luke has ever felt. He feels perfectly empty, all of his energy pooled where Han touches him, the new center of his universe. He feels hollow and full all at once, and endlessly hungry for more. “Fuck me,” he whimpers sloppily, not even sure how much of it he means. He likes the way Han twists under him when he says it, though. He lets go of Han’s hair with one hand and reaches for Han’s belt, scrubbing his hand against the hairs on his searching way down into the fabric of his pants and around the searing heat of his stiff cock. “Fuck me,” he says again, just to feel the twitching pulse against his palm when Han hears him.

“No,” Han says in between deep, wet kisses. He’s fucking the grip of Luke’s hand, and his own hands are roaming to slide over every inch of Luke’s body, so it takes a while for Luke to process what he said.

“Why not?” He drops his hips to grind against the strip of skin where Han’s shirt has ridden up, trapping his cock and his arm between their bodies. He bites his lip at the pleasure of the hot, firm skin to rub against.

“Hell, I have no idea,” Han laughs before easily flipping Luke onto his back and climbing between his legs. Luke gasps under the surge of it. He’s going to get what he _wants_. Han’s expression looks as happy as Luke’s whole body feels as he confesses, “Just wanted to make sure I _could_say no, I guess. God, you look so good.”

“I’ll look better full of your cock.” Luke hears the words rolling off his tongue from somewhere deep inside, divine inspiration. He uses the tuck of Han’s hitched breath to reach between them and undo his belt and pants for good.

“Yeah.” Han sounds much less clever than he did a minute ago. “Yeah, you will.”

After a few minutes of fumbling, whispering, improvising, negotiating, hands slipping on sweaty skin, and desperate eye contact (_“Damn, you beg pretty, kid”_), Luke is grinding down onto three of Han’s rough fingers. They twist deep, knuckles curling every which way, exploring, trying him out like a new ride. Luke feels lit up from the inside out, props himself up on his elbows to watch Han’s head bent down to watch the push of his fingertips so deep that it’s visible like a pulse low on his abdomen, just beside his straining, weeping cock. When Han ducks down to kiss and bite the soft white inside of one of his splayed thighs, Luke lets his head fall backwards and his eyes flutter shut, lets Han’s touch take over his consciousness.

That particular surrender must mean something to Han. He pulls out his fingers from the grip of Luke’s ass with a gasping, laughing sound like disbelief, and Luke _knows_it’s the good kind of disbelief. Crazy with that knowledge, he brings his knees in closer to his chest.

“Yes,” he hisses when he’s rewarded with Han’s body pressing him down, folding his even tighter, sucking and biting a tender spot on his neck. Luke puts his hands in Han’s hair when he feels the hot, blunt pressure against his hole, but as soon as the pressure breaks and he feels Han _inside him_, his hands shoot to the wall behind him and _push_, bearing down on the enormous, perfect, too-tender feeling of being _filled_.

“_Luke_.” It might be the first time Han has said it since he walked through the door, or maybe it’s just that it’s the first time he’s ever said it while fucking gently into Luke’s ass, easing him open with nudging strokes. Whatever it is, it makes Luke feel like the brightest star in the galaxy.

His legs climb around Han’s back, drawing him in and deeper until there’s no room to move. “Hey, look at me.” Han’s voice is not quite commanding, but Luke does it anyways, stomach dropping even further at the way Han’s eyes have gone dark, at how his shoulders glisten in the dim light now that his shirt is finally off and they’re finally doing something worth sweating over. 

Something about the way he looks at him makes Han smile and pull out a bit just to fuck back into him again, slamming deep with a slap of flesh that makes Luke’s vision go fuzzy. He lets his eyes fall shut again. “More,” he pleads hoarsely, and Han complies.

At one point, Luke grabs a pillow to put over his face and muffle his screams. At one point, Han pistons so fast and perfectly aimed inside him that he kicks Han in the head trying to get _more_. At one point, Han’s hands travel soft and reverent all over Luke’s torso before clutching his hips tight and putting him right in the perfect position to come in. At one point, Han rips the pillow right off of Luke’s face and kisses him deep as Luke comes into the tight hollow of Han’s fist. At one point, Luke rakes his fingers through Han’s hair and thinks, _I love you_, but doesn’t say it out loud.

His sense of shame comes back to him with the cool dew of post-aerobic sweat. He observes its presence curiously, because it’s been days since he felt shame. It heralds the return of normal emotions, replacing the endless rut of hope, self-pity, and selfless lonely love he’s been stuck in. He feels good. 

He feels like he has everything he wants.

“What did you do to me?” he says, struggling to laugh under Han’s weight even as Han pulls out and a trail of wet tickles him on its way down. He fits his thumb into the clutch of Han’s hand, pressing into the sticky wet heat of what he collected there.

Han exhales sharply as though startled from sleep—a real sleep, this time. His thumb brushes over Luke’s wrist and his mouth latches onto the same sore spot on Luke’s neck. “I fucked you, like you asked. I’m a good guy.”

Luke smiles up at the ceiling he’s been staring at all week, thanking it for getting him everything he wanted. “You are,” he agrees. “I should shower.” His stomach growls. “And eat something.”

Han lifts his head to look down at him like he’s a prized invention. “Hey, that’s what I’m talking about.”

“What, you don’t like your boys starved and smelly?” Luke steals a kiss and carves out enough space to get out from under Han’s heavy body.

It actually makes Han sputter just as much as it makes Luke blush to say it. “I didn’t say that,” he eventually gets out, blinking up at Luke as he stands. The way he looks up and down Luke’s body, free of the haze of a hard dick, makes it seem like he doesn’t mind Luke starved and smelly at all. “I’m just glad you’re feeling better, is all.” Han gathers all the smugness he can find and rolls onto his back with one knee propped up for Luke to see the aftermath of all they’ve done.

Luke bites the inside of his cheek, his own kind of smug. “You should shower, too,” he announces. Showering with Han is a hundred times more motivating than showering by himself. He wants to live his life again, but his life with Han in his bed, by his side, in the shower with him.

Han stops him from turning away with a hand circled around his wrist, all too gentle. “Hey,” he murmurs, quiet enough to get Luke to meet his eyes. “If I’d known all you needed was a good fuck to keep your spirits up, I’d have offered a long time ago.”

_I’m in love with you_, Luke thinks, the words lodged in his throat and hard to swallow around. The thought makes his eyes sting, but he manages a smile, wrapping his hand tight around Han’s wrist and tugging him up sharply to sit. “Guess I’d better keep you around, then.”

He’s rewarded with a kiss. It feels like _I love you_. 


End file.
